


believe me, i'll leave

by sombregods



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blowjobs, Emotional Repression, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Glove Kink, Longing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Profoundly Unresolved Emotional Tension, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sparring, Tears, intercrural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26048626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sombregods/pseuds/sombregods
Summary: The third time Felix fucks his former best friend, he realizes two things:There is a dark, dire wanting, inside his ribcage, for the savagery and inhumanity that resides within Dimitri. And—Dimitri knows it, now.Academy-era Dimitri and Felix keep having violent, emotionally charged sex.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 9
Kudos: 89
Collections: Dimilix NSFW Bingo





	believe me, i'll leave

**Author's Note:**

> that awkward feeling when you join a new fandom just in time for a pairing-wide porn event ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ hi.
> 
> this was written for the 'first time' + 'training grounds' + 'tears' + and 'dimitri's hands' squares, though it became less about his hands and more about his ... gloves.

At sunset, in the training grounds, when the other students and the Knights of Seiros have retreated to their personal quarters or to the dining hall, Dimitri watches him.

It is an invasion of Felix’s privacy, he knows: it is an invasion of the battle lines Felix has taken pains to raise between them. Were Dimitri the man he claims he is—the prince whom all admire, the boy who strives to become a worthy king—he would abandon this doomed quest even now. But he is not. Selfishness takes root in his body, grows and develops in his veins, festers and rots.

He leans against the doors, arms crossed, and watches as Felix moves between drills. The red sunlight descends and darkens over the sand.

Felix is deadly and silent and knowing with a sword. His eyes are dark, like this; his mouth, set. His damp hair clings to his face, to the soft-looking back of his neck. His white sleeves are nearly translucent in the falling light, and Dimitri could swear he sees the work of his biceps underneath. It occurs to him that Felix is nearly a man grown: Felix’s body is so well-formed, now, all lean strength, all hardness. He will never be as tall as Dimitri, but ah, his shoulders, and ah, his thighs …

‘Spar with me, boar.’

The name jars Dimitri, a static shiver racing down his spine. Yet Felix’s back is turned to him. He breathes hard, passes his fist over his mouth.

They are alone in the training grounds.

Felix turns. He looks—ah, tired. Anger burns in him like a low lamp, like a wound, like something long lost. ‘Pick up a lance, or leave. I don’t want to see your face tonight if I can help it.’

It feels like a grace, a courtesy: the last courtesy Felix ever grants him, anymore. Dimitri closes his eyes. Nods.

He removes his half-cape, the buckle stiff between his gloved fingers. He picks up the training lance in a practiced grip, swinging it once to test its give, its solidity, against his own indecorous strength. When he looks up again, Felix is just—just—glancing away.

‘Get it done,’ Felix says, crisply, and moves, sudden, his practice sword slicing for Dimitri’s neck. It’s only in the space of a breath that Dimitri ducks, rolls away, and is back on his feet, parrying a second blow at once, and then a third—moving back, back, circling the sand, as Felix flexes his wrist and stalks after him, each stroke clean, refined. There is no mercy in it, no give. It’s almost kind, that ruthlessness.

The sword glances off Dimitri’s lance, and he twists, getting behind Felix half a second before Felix turns to deflect. Their blades grind against each other with a screech of metal, and Felix is thrown back one step, two: Dimitri’s strength is greater, and he has longer reach, though Felix is the better swordsman and smarter in melee. They are almost evenly matched. The advantage between them balances, changes and shifts: one, when Felix forces him back against a pillar, his strokes so swift that Dimitri can scarcely see them come; two, when Dimitri lands a stinging blow against Felix’s flank, delivering himself. Three: an unexpected hit against Dimitri’s shoulder, that makes him stagger. Four: he sees through Felix’s feint and blocks a frontal attack, shoving him backward. Felix snarls, falls back on his heels, and—oh, there is nothing like this—there is no one like him to make Dimitri’s blood run clear and free. His eyes are watchful, focused.

An unbearable intimacy echoes between them in such moments, when Felix’s cutting tongue falls silent, and his body answers Dimitri’s like a bird. They know each other, still.

It comes down to a foolish mistake, a sign that Felix has been training for hours in the heat: his ankle twists, his leg buckles, and he half-falls, half-stumbles, his shoulder slamming into a pillar. The impact makes him swear; gritting his teeth, he rears up too late; Dimitri closes in on him, avoids a mordant, upswing slice that would have knocked him out cold if it had landed, and wrenches the sword out of his hand with a twist of his lance.

‘Fuck,’ says Felix, again and with feeling, and yet he closes his eyes when Dimitri’s lance point stops inches from his neck.

Dimitri watches the fall of his dark lashes against his cheeks.

He says: ‘Yield, Felix,’ and his voice is as close to tenderness as it can ever get anymore.

* * *

‘Yield,’ says the boar prince, and Felix bares his teeth at him. ‘Yield, Felix,’ and Felix’s traitor heart pounds.

He loathes the sound of his name in this mouth, in this voice: Dimitri’s voice.

Dimitri, who is dead.

‘Come, Felix,’ says the beast. He smiles, barely out of breath, and it does not touch his eyes. His lips stretch. It’s a pleasant smile. Cordial. ‘You don’t have to fight all the time, you know.’

It is, quite possibly, the worst thing anyone could ever say to Felix, and it is worse yet falling from Dimitri’s lips. Dimitri would never say such a thing; Dimitri would know that Felix must fight, and know the reason why; no one, in truth, would know better. The refrain repeats, a childish, pathetic tune: _Dimitri wouldn’t, Dimitri wouldn’t_. It awakens in him an anger far greater than the latent annoyance that has dogged him all the day. Unconditional rage claws at his throat, sour, harsh, bitter; with a snarl he lashes out, bare-fisted, at the boar’s left side.

Dimitri is taken off his guard, which is the only reason Felix manages to get him off-balance and onto his back, the lance scattering from numb fingers. Felix throws a leg over him, straddles his hips, riding out the compulsive jerk of his body as the beast attempts, though weakly, to throw him off; he plants his fists onto his shoulders and pins him to the ground, and finally Dimitri grows still, silent.

He stares up at Felix, eyes wide and clear, lips parted. It would be child’s play for him to grasp at Felix and reverse their positions, to shove him off into the sand, and yet he does not: his hands fall from the air between them and alight—softly, despite the gauntlets’ bite—on Felix’s trembling thighs.

‘Felix,’ he breathes, painfully.

‘Shut up,’ Felix says. The edge of hurt in Dimitri’s voice leaves sparks on his skin. He needs to get up. He needs to leave, before the fever in him crests.

But.

In the lengthening shadows, while the boar lies underneath him, compliant, docile, almost tamed, Felix watches. Desire and confusion roar at odds inside his ribcage, but. He watches.

Dimitri’s lashes are long, a shadow of gold, and his hair, though streaked with red sand, is as a saint’s halo. His face has changed much in the past two years. Gone is the last baby softness of his cheeks: his bones are sharper and more defined, now, and his mouth lined; the eyebrows are fine, slanted, furrowed with ever-constant pain. His shoulders have become broader, an early reminder of the man he will become in later years, if he lives so far. A flutter at his neck: a pulse, beating. He swallows, and the movement bares his throat, pale and stark against the blue fabric.

Felix puts his thumb against his mouth and Dimitri opens it, allowing him— _Goddess_ —to press the pad of it against his tongue.

It’s soft. Warm. Dimitri’s eyes flutter shut. Again compliant; again accepting. Again.

Felix’s throat is dry. His thighs flex under the boar’s fingers, and when he tilts his hips forward his pelvic bone meets a familiar hardness, unmistakably large. Dimitri makes a wounded noise and parts his lips wider to take two of Felix’s naked fingers, his tongue flat against them—

‘You’re disgusting,’ Felix says, and the beast winces, a simulacrum of hurt. ‘You disgust me. Taking my fingers in your maw like this.’ He pushes down, until the pads of his fingers hit Dimitri’s throat. He doesn’t gag. A beast does not feel. ‘Is that what you wanted, watching me? Like you do, evening after evening? Did you want to throw me down and fuck me, boar?’

He draws his fingers out slickly, following the flickers of hurt in Dimitri’s expression with avid interest. ‘Tell me,’ he bites out, holding Dimitri’s jaw. _‘Tell me.’_

‘Yes.’

Dimitri’s voice, again: _‘Yes.’_

Something in Felix snaps, goes sideways, goes sharp. He rears back, staring. Then realizes: he is hard, too. That was unavoidable. He has been hard many nights, getting himself off to visions—visions—ah—of Dimitri, his Dimitri, grown and strong and alive, as soft in smiling as he once was in touch—the lie so real, the falsehood of it: impossible fantasies. He has touched himself for hours, his hand on his cock slick and good with much oil, making it tight, making it hurt, dreading the boar might hear his sounds through their shared wall. Hoping, down in the ugly, mean pits of his mind, that he would.

He sits back on Dimitri’s hard thighs and palms him through his pants. The long hot line of him is a burning brand against his fingers, and Dimitri moans, loud and long and full, when Felix presses the apple of his palm against it. Dimitri _would_ have a king’s dick, thick, long, unyielding, and—judging by the wetness gathering—already leaking. Felix has barely touched him.

‘Pathetic,’ he hisses. ‘Look at you.’

‘Ahh,’ Dimitri says, sighs. He tilts his head back, which again bares his throat. Felix is taken with a smoldering desire to bite him, to tear through the high neck of his uniform. But that would be bestial.

‘Look at you,’ he repeats, tightening his grip mercilessly. ‘Hasn’t anyone done this for you before, boar? Hasn’t anyone given you what you want? Are you so far gone you get hard for _me_?’

Dimitri shakes his head. He looks dazed: his eyes are glazing over. ‘You,’ he says, incoherent. And then: ‘Ah, Felix—’

Felix knocks his hand away, when he would reach up for him. ‘Don’t. Touch me.’

Dimitri swallows. His hips work upward in small, impulsive motions, pushing up into Felix’s palm, and a gorgeous flush suffuses his cheeks. ‘Won’t you let me—’

‘Hah. No.’ Felix is breathing hard; his blood pounds agonizingly in his veins. His own cock is trapped beneath his belt, the swollen head sensitive enough to chafe against the rough fabric of his pants. He rolls his hips, and swallows back a groan when Dimitri’s erection brushes his. Still, he manages: ‘You’d snap me in half if given the chance, boar.’

‘Never,’ Dimitri breathes. Swallows. ‘Oh, Felix,—touch me … ’

‘Shit,’ Felix hisses, and drops his weight on top of Dimitri’s cock. The relief is unbearable, the pressure intolerable, and still he seeks more, grinding down helplessly. His thighs are tight around Dimitri’s body, clenching and releasing.

‘Please,’ Dimitri says, his voice caught now in something like a sob, and it is that—that mindless plea—which destroys something within Felix. It is Dimitri’s voice, it is Dimitri’s body. What does it matter if the creature within isn’t Dimitri, isn’t Dimitri at all? Getting off to his dead best friend’s killer is better than grief, better than rage.

He plants his hands on Dimitri’s chest and rides him like that, uniforms and all, dragging his cock roughly against his, shoving against him in impatient, brutal thrusts. Dimitri takes it, takes it all without protest, letting Felix reap his pleasure from his body. His fingers make bruises on Felix’s thighs, flowers of pain. His lips are parted, reddened, slick with spit, and a whimper falls from his tongue every time Felix drops down against him.

But his eyes are on Felix’s throughout, hot, blue, steady, uncanny, and that is worse than a caress, worse than a blow.

Panting, sweat slicking his hair to his temple and neck, Felix knows that Dimitri is coming moments before he does: he _feels_ the cock packed up against his swell under the constraints of his leggings, growing impossibly big, pulsing, and then Dimitri moans, loud and obscene, as far from a prince as he’s ever been, and _throbs_ , and promptly spends all over himself.

After, he shivers, mouth open, dragging in heavy gulps of air. His fingers dig into Felix’s flesh; his thighs underneath him are shaking. Felix ignores all of it. He ignores Dimitri’s breathless gasps, the overstimulated little jerks of his hips, and fucks himself relentlessly onto his softening cock, too far gone to even consider opening his pants to jerk himself off. Back arched, thighs clenching around Dimitri’s accepting body—ah, it feels so good—

‘Felix,’ Dimitri whispers, as though he can’t speak any louder, as though Felix has taken away any power of speech he has.

Felix opens his eyes with an effort, looks down at him. He flinches: Dimitri’s gauntleted fingers touch his cheek. That great strength, all restrained, made gentle. The metal smells like oil and sweat and hot sand.

‘Felix,’ he repeats, soft, and Felix comes, shaking, choking on his own grief.

* * *

‘This didn’t happen,’ says Felix, and leaves him flat on his back on the red sand.

But Dimitri’s memory is exceptional. He cannot forget.

Conscious as he has always been of Felix’s presence, he is more awake to him, in the days that follow, than ever since his arrival in Garreg Mach. He becomes caught up in the smallest details, like sparks under his eyelids. It is the work of bone in Felix’s slender wrists, under his pale skin; it is the vulnerable arch of Felix’s nape as he pulls his hair up in its customary bun; it is the droplets of sweat that drip from his temple and jaw as he practices his footwork. They sit desk to desk in class, and Felix’s even breathing haunts Dimitri through the Professor’s lessons. He sees it when Felix massages his neck, working out an unhappy cramp. He sees the rare curve of his lips as he masters a new feint or parry. He sees the deep, restrained tiredness in his eyes at the end of a long day.

Felix watches him back. He speaks dreadful words that twist sickeningly at Dimitri’s insides, but his eyes are intent and hot with the awareness of what they have done. _I see you_ , they seem to say; _I see the beast you are: so depraved that you had your pleasure with me on the ground._

Maybe. Maybe.

They are deployed after a gang of bandits, some days after. They are not uneasy to rout, but there are many of them, and the terrain is hazardous, deep gorse and forest crusted over with frost. They become disunited, until Dimitri loses sight of the Professor, of Dedue. Annette’s spells are sparks slashing through the darkening distance. He can hear Sylvain’s voice, in fits and bursts, gleeful and taunting. Then they too vanish, eaten by the forest.

He kills his last man with a mortal blow, a clean slice of his lance that passes in and through with a burst of red blood. The bandit staggers and crumples at his feet, and Dimitri passes a hand over his mouth, tasting copper from the leather of his gloves. He’s lost his gauntlets—somewhere; he can’t remember throwing them away. His armor is heavy on his chest, sweat slicking his hair. Slowly, he disengages his blade from the bandit’s chest, and makes his way through the bramble and burr, listening for the hooves of Ingrid’s steed, for the Professor’s voice.

The trees are close, and dark. Bracken crunches underfoot.

He is on his guard, vigilant, heeding every sound. When he sees a silhouette leaning hard against a tree trunk, his hand makes to unsheathe his sword—before, with a lurch, he knows that it is Felix, head thrown back, fingers pressed to a gash in his arm, blood seeping to soak his sleeve.

‘Felix,’ he says, and is by his side in four long heartbeats, four long strides. Felix’s jaw is set, his brow furrowed in evident pain.

‘Boar,’ he grits out. He tilts his head, scraping the back of his skull against the bark, and his lips lift in a painful sneer. ‘As bloodied as usual, I see. Did you get to kill to your heart’s desire?’

‘You’re wounded,’ says Dimitri, for whom nothing else matters.

‘I’ve been wounded before. It’s nothing.’ Felix rolls his shoulder, and winces, biting back a weak little … moan. It’s unmistakably a moan, and it sounds a little like pleasure.

Dimitri’s hand reaches out to touch, and it speaks to Felix’s state that he doesn’t move away, though his eyes are thunderous. He flinches, visibly, when Dimitri’s gloved fingers alight on his arm, when they encircle his bicep; Dimitri cannot tell if it is due to the pain, or—not.

‘I have a vulnerary,’ he says, working it out of his belt, his last; he is strangely caught by the way the blood turns the white fabric of Felix’s sleeve to a bright crimson.

‘Are you just going to look,’ hisses Felix, ‘you _savage_ ,’ but when Dimitri glances into his eyes he sees a deep hurt glazing them over. Wordlessly, he hands the vulnerary over.

Then, with slow purpose, he puts both of his hands on either side of Felix’s head and presses the long, armored line of his body against Felix’s.

He’s hard. He has been hard for … a while.

‘You … ’ Deep disgust permeates Felix’s voice. ‘Are you—’

‘Felix,’ says Dimitri, low. His lips are brushing against Felix’s, half-parted, and for a bare, heartbreaking moment he thinks Felix is going to let him—to let him—but Felix turns his head, swallowing, and Dimitri breathes against the soft skin of his bared neck. He opens his mouth against it, noses at the musky smell of Felix’s sweat, and works his hand between their bodies, letting it trail down his hard, trembling belly. Felix is warm, alive, _vital_. The blood is still leaking between his fingers.

‘Boar.’ Distaste, yes, repugnance. Underneath it, a trail of want. Dimitri’s hand wanders lower. Felix’s hips jolt forward. ‘You wild _boar_.’

‘Let me,’ Dimitri murmurs, ‘please you.’ He tastes, where Felix’s jaw meets his neck, sweat, salt. Felix inhales, sharp.

His cock is hot to the touch. Dimitri frees him delicately from his pants and wraps his hand around him, the leather of his glove smooth and a little too stiff, still spattered in blood. Felix is rigid underneath him, and his chest rises and falls with quickened breaths as Dimitri strokes him, the foreskin sliding slickly, obscenely, pulled back from the fat, leaking cockhead. It’s hardness and it’s heat, it’s good, it’s unbearably intimate, and yet Dimitri—aches for more. He wants the silk of Felix’s length against his bare skin: his palms, his chest, his throat, the space between his thighs. His cock throbs in his pants at the thought; he shifts closer still, angling himself against Felix’s hip, until his armor bites into Felix’s shoulders. The first touch is a relief, the first pressure a reprieve.

‘Seiros.’ Felix’s voice is steely, disdainful, low with contempt. ‘You really are an animal. Are you going to rut against me, beast? Are you in _heat_?’

The words awaken such arousal in Dimitri that he moans in the crook of Felix’s throat. Eyes half-closed, he thrusts blindly against Felix’s hip, and he tightens his hold until Felix swears, loud and obscene, until he blinks tears from his lashes, until Felix’s hand rises to take a grip in his hair and forcibly pull back his head from his neck. Dimitri is pulled. His chest burns.

‘Do it,’ Felix grinds out, the corners of his mouth lined with pain. Night is falling around them, enveloping them like a cloak. ‘Do it. Don’t pull back on me now, you fucking coward—’

‘Ah, Felix—’

Felix’s hips are pushing into his hand, _pushing_ his cock through his fingers, and his mouth is open, softly panting. He is stunning like this, Dimitri thinks miserably: caught in sexual pleasure, tilting on the brink of climax, Felix is a vision. They are both selfish. He takes his satisfaction from Dimitri’s hand as he has taken it from his body on the training grounds, and it isn’t long till he wrenches at Dimitri’s hair, jerks hard against his chest, and comes, comes, and comes.

His spend is pearly-white against the black leather of Dimitri’s gloves. Dimitri works him through it, grip tight, till Felix hisses in overstimulation and shoves him backward.

The loss of his body against his cock is so harrowing that Dimitri nearly forgets himself: nearly shoves him back against the tree to take what he craves. He thinks of it, for a long second. There is a low roaring in his ears. They stare at each other.

Then Felix puts himself to rights, slowly. He looks Dimitri up and down, and his lip curls.

‘Pathetic,’ he says, and then: ‘Don’t let the Professor see you that way.’

His shoulder wrenches against Dimitri as he passes him. He leaves him there, between the trees, covered in blood and come, ragingly hard and horribly sad.

* * *

It happens. It happens again.

The third time Felix fucks his former best friend, he realizes two things:

There is a dark, dire wanting, inside his ribcage, for the savagery and inhumanity that resides within Dimitri. And—

Dimitri knows it, now.

They are, by chance, by ill-luck, in a corridor at dawn. Felix, on his way to the training grounds; Dimitri, haunting the monastery for reasons of his own devision. Dimitri is not, for once, wearing his uniform, but a simple white shirt, and he looks at Felix like he’s seeing the sun rise. He stops him with a hand on his arm, deceptively gentle, and he says: ‘We really must talk about this.’

‘No,’ says Felix.

‘Felix—’ He looks painfully earnest. It twists in Felix’s chest, that expression: Dimitri is anything but innocent.

‘No,’ he says. He says it again when Dimitri’s other hand slips into his hair. He says it again when Dimitri’s fingers grasp the back of his neck. ‘No-o,’ he says, when Dimitri’s mouth hovers above his.

For a moment he thinks Dimitri will ignore him entirely. It is in the boar’s nature to take what he wants. Wavering, he thinks of letting it happen. He thinks of Dimitri kissing him, taking his mouth, plundering it, his hands roaming, doing whatever he wishes to Felix’s body.

But then Dimitri takes in a breath and masters himself, and Felix holds back a shiver of revulsion. So Dimitri is dishonest even in this. He won’t let the beast out for the only one who sees him true, whole and gruesome and bloodthirsty as he is.

Instead Dimitri parts his lips against his neck, and trails kisses down Felix’s jaw, sighing softly. He murmurs his name. His hand is at Felix’s hip, and his thumb makes smooth circles through the fabric of Felix’s waistcoat. That soft touch makes sparks, static shocks that echo up Felix’s arching spine, and he is helpless, he is—useless, pliant in Dimitri’s loose grasp, wishing for violence, wishing for the boar to tear through his clothing and _take_ him, civility be damned, here in this corridor at the brink of dawn. He doesn’t want to think anymore. He doesn’t—he—

‘Suck me,’ he says, the words the last grip he has on his sanity, and shoves at Dimitri’s shoulders. Dimitri’s eyes meet his, pupils dilated so far that uncanny blue is almost uncanny black. He blinks, slow.

‘You want—ah— … ’

‘If you bite me,’ Felix snarls, ‘I’ll run you through,’ and if Dimitri’s lips lift in a semi-smile, he ignores it. ‘ _Suck me_ , your Highness.’

A rough shudder runs through Dimitri’s tall form.

And then he goes to his knees.

Head lifted, lips open. It is a sight Felix knows he will never forget. The heir of Faerghus, the boar prince, the violent creature who crushed the Western Rebellion, the Professor’s favorite killer, now submissive, now on his knees, because Felix told him to be. He leans forward, noses at Felix’s groin, groans. Deep in his throat. It’s an animal sound, low and rumbling, and it should not make Felix harder than he’s ever been; but it does.

‘Get on with it,’ he says between his teeth.

Dimitri’s hands are on his thighs, large and patient. He glances up; nods. He’s still wearing his gloves.

Why the fuck, thinks Felix, is he still wearing gloves? He watches the dark smooth leather as Dimitri begins, painstakingly, to unlace his leggings. His cock is leaking at the slit, and Dimitri’s thumb catches a droplet of slickness, smears it around, when at last he draws him from the opening. Doesn’t bother pulling Felix’s pants down farther. Felix swears under his breath. His cock is thick, not too long, not like Dimitri’s monstrous dick, but _thick_ , at the root and at the tip, and flushed almost purple. Dimitri blinks, staring.

‘What are you looking at,’ Felix mutters.

‘I’m,’ says Dimitri, and then, ‘huh.’ And noses underneath Felix’s cock, parting his lips softly against the fleshy underside.

The air lunges out of Felix’s lungs. ‘Ah—fuck. Fuck.’

‘Mm,’ says Dimitri, palpably smiling. It’s a long, excruciating moment before his eyes fall half-shut and his mouth opens. He takes Felix’s cockhead on his tongue and lets it rest there, unmoving, soft and wet—a taunt! thinks Felix—better than a taunt, and worse. He glances up, then, with a pleading air, as though to say: _take me_.

Felix sets his teeth. One of his hands grasps at Dimitri’s ridiculous bright hair and makes an unforgiving fist into it, while the other grips his length and feeds it, slowly, ungently, into Dimitri’s open mouth. Down on his tongue, down into his throat, all the way down. Tight and hot. So, so good. Felix swallows.

Nothing, not even the hard line of Dimitri’s own cock through the restraining fabric of their trousers; not even his hand stroking him up from his root to his straining tip; nothing has ever been as good as this. And he wants, he wants—to cry out: to say Dimitri’s name again, to push into that soft welcoming throat and choke him with cock, to make that martyr’s face flushed and damp with tears.

Dimitri’s hands stroke up and down his thighs, and he hums as Felix pushes in and out of his mouth. They gain a rhythm. Dimitri learns to suckle on the head on the way out; his tongue presses flat against the fat vein underside. He laps up the fluid that leaks out the slit, never so much as grimacing at what must be a salty, bitter taste. The expression on his face is that of a saint, ecstatic, fervent. Somehow, it makes Felix even angrier; his thrusts grow erratic as the ache behind his balls gathers up, sending flashes of bright pressure up into his pelvic bone.

‘That’s good,’ he murmurs, watching his cock disappear slickly between Dimitri’s stretched lips. ‘Is it? Good?’

Dimitri nods, moans—ah, _Goddess_ —and Felix is taken with a wave of sudden, alarming misery. True, he has dared to think about this: the beast that his best friend has become, kneeling at his feet, obedient and willing, letting Felix shove up his cock into his mouth. He has thought of fucking Dimitri’s open throat, of pressing his face up against his pubic bone, and of never letting up till he empties himself blind into Dimitri’s stomach. He has thought of using him, again and again, till he could throw him aside. It would be a purging of the soul, the last twisted act of friendship he will ever offer Dimitri.

But Dimitri’s eyes flicker up to his, bright and wet, and Felix knows, knows, then, that he will never have enough of him. It’s unendurable, that acquiescence, that acceptance. He wants Dimitri to thunder at him, to hate as Felix hates. He wants—

Goddess, he wants to be fucked.

The realization is enough to force him into a stunning, thundering orgasm. He howls as he comes, and through the intensity of it he still sees a tear trail brightly down Dimitri’s fine cheek as he swallows, again and again.

After.

Felix breathes. The air smells sweet.

Dimitri leans his head against his thigh. His eyes are shut. Felix’s fingers catch at the tears trickling from his lashes, smearing them over his cheekbone.

Says, voice hoarse: ‘You?’

Dimitri says: ‘You don’t have to.’

‘Don’t give me that horseshit,’ Felix says, but the usual bite in his words is all but gone. He takes Dimitri’s face in his hands and lifts it to the morning sun, and Dimitri doesn’t resist, his eyes still closed, his tears still falling. He looks ruined. And somehow a light seems to shine out of him: kingship, birthright. For a moment he looks so much like the boy Felix adored that Felix almost forgets that boy is long, long dead.

He forces his numb lips to move. ‘Tonight.’ Dimitri hums, inquiring, nudging his head into Felix’s hands. ‘ … come to my room.’

Dimitri’s even breathing ceases. His eyes open, slowly. Whatever his expression means, Felix cannot read it. It’s solemn. Calm.

He says: ‘Felix. Ah. Yes.’

* * *

It’s late. On Dimitri’s other side, even Sylvain has (ostensibly) gone to sleep. Dimitri waits till the last lights of the monastery have disappeared out the window, though, before he dares to step out of his room and halt outside Felix’s. It has always struck him as a twisted coincidence, or the Goddess’ unimaginable sense of humor, that their doors should be neighbors; and yet he has never been inside Felix’s quarters. Often he has imagined knocking, with a query or an offer to spar, and often he has dismissed that thought as an idle fantasy. It takes the breath from him now: being asked.

He raps gently on the wood, glancing down the corridor with a nervousness that feels unearned. The door opens at once, as though Felix had lain in wait.

His silhouette is defined against the dim lamplight. Like Dimitri, he has forgone the outer layers of his uniform, and his clean white shirt is tucked in the high waist of his pants, outlining his hips. ‘Your Beastliness.’

Dimitri grimaces. ‘Must you call me that?’

Felix’s smile is ugly. ‘It suits you.’ But he steps back to let him in, and Dimitri doesn’t allow himself to take another breath till he closes, and locks, the door.

They have been alone together enough times in the last few weeks that the sight of him is not—should not be—enough to make Dimitri timid. He is not timid: a king cannot afford to be. It was but this morning that he knelt, painfully, on a stone floor, tasting the texture and slickness and thickness of Felix’s cock, if not its bitterness. Still, he feels the unreality of the moment settle over them now, an uncomfortable weight. Felix’s eyes are upon his, steadfast. Always steadfast, even though the mere sight of Dimitri is enough to repulse him.

Felix tilts his head. ‘Well?’ he asks, abruptly.

‘You wanted,’ Dimitri says, and trails off.

‘You thought I wanted to _talk_.’ Felix’s grimace is eloquent, and his meaning worse so.

‘I don’t know, Felix,’ Dimitri says, tiredly. ‘I don’t know what you want from me anymore.’

‘Anything,’ Felix bites. ‘Anything but— This pretence; it disgusts me. You disgust me, like this.’

‘I know,’ Dimitri says. ‘I know.’

‘And _that_.’ Felix’s fingers touch his lower lip. Dimitri blinks, and turns his head: Felix’s palm cradles his cheek, falsely tender. ‘Why the fuck are you smiling?’

Dimitri says nothing at all.

And the light dies out of Felix’s eyes.

‘You’re good for nothing but killing and fucking, boar.’ His voice hardens. His once-beloved face sets into unpleasant lines, his sneer cracked through. ‘And I’ve no intention of letting you kill me.’

Dimitri feels the stars fall inside of him, one by one, awful and dying. This is how it feels, he thinks, to break a heart the same way you break a body.

He asks: ‘What do you want from me?’

‘You’ll give it to me, will you?’ Felix says, teeth bared. ‘Anything I want.’

‘Anything.’ The stars gather in Dimitri’s eyelashes. ‘Anything.’

‘Take off your gloves.’

That is so far from what Dimitri had expected— _get on your knees_ , perhaps, or _get on your back_ —that the soft words leave him mute. ‘What?’ He manages: ‘I—’

‘Take off your gloves,’ Felix says, ‘or get out of my sight.’

Dimitri glances down at his hands. They are black smooth leather, perfectly fitted: gloves he wears on a daily basis under his armored gauntlets, as familiar to him as his own skin. He can’t remember the last time he touched—anyone, anything—without them. After years of loneliness, it became simpler to keep them on always.

Touch is complicated.

He lifts one hand to his mouth and bites into the glove. He pulls it off, slowly, with his teeth. Then the other.

‘Beast,’ Felix murmurs. But his eyes have darkened, and it is not so bad, now, the lack of light. Softer still: ‘Come here. Touch me.’

Dimitri obeys.

The caress of his fingertips against Felix’s heated cheek is a shock to them both. Felix takes in a sharp little breath, and Dimitri can see the muscle working in his jaw, as he keeps himself from—turning away, surely, for Felix cannot wish for his touch. It is unbearable. More intimate, in its way, than Felix’s cock in his mouth had been, for that was only sex—and this is weakness. Felix makes him naked in ways Dimitri could never imagine. Garreg Mach spreads around them, gigantic and cavernous, and Dimitri knows he has never been so attuned to another’s body, never longed for so much skin.

He turns his palm to cup Felix’s jaw, and draws him up for a kiss.

Felix makes a sound of muffled, outraged astonishment, but his lips open greedily to Dimitri’s. He kisses like he fights: without surrender. His hands grasp Dimitri’s arms; his hips jolt against Dimitri’s hips. His mouth is so hot, so hot. His tongue tangles with Dimitri’s, the wetness almost obscene in the slick sounds they make, and, ah, it sinks in Dimitri’s lungs, the awareness of him, of his live lithe body, soft nowhere no more—of his soft, soft panting breaths, and those hungry moans he smothers in Dimitri’s mouth—

 _Enough of this_. The thought is raw. And he knows, then, what Felix wants from him. 

* * *

Dimitri shoves him down on the bed.

Felix wrenches against his arms, snarling, but Dimitri’s mouth is relentless and ravenous upon his. Dimitri’s bare hands cradle his jaw, twist his body, force him upward, until Felix is hanging up by the strength of those hands alone, his own fingers twisting helplessly in Dimitri’s shirtsleeves. Dimitri kisses without asking for permission, without gentleness, without compunction or compassion or care. When he is satisfied that he has devoured Felix’s mouth, his lips sink to Felix’s throat, and there his teeth bite straight down.

Felix _howls_.

‘Remember this,’ Dimitri murmurs. ‘Remember you wanted this all along. You wanted me.’

‘As if—’ Felix heaves for breath, spits: ‘I could forget, you damn _boar_. Fuck me. _Fuck_ me.’

‘Mm.’ Dimitri nuzzles against the bitemark. ‘I think not.’ He is still fucking chivalrous, and still—a threat, unmistakably, in this aroused state. And Felix’s treasonous body wants, wants, wants, wants. ‘I want something else.’

‘I don’t give a damn what you want,’ Felix snaps, hips lurching up in a futile attempt to twist round and free himself. Dimitri thrusts him back down without effort. He laces his fingers in Felix’s, pushing his hands gently above his head, into the pillows.

‘You’ll like it, I think,’ he says. ‘Ah, Felix, I have wanted … ’

‘Don’t,’ Felix says. ‘Don’t make this easier for me.’

‘I want to please you,’ says Dimitri, heartfelt.

‘Then _fuck me_.’

Dimitri nods, solemnly. ‘Only good for killing and fucking, you said. Shall I show you?’

‘What—’ Felix’s lips are taut over his teeth. ‘Are you going to mount me?’

Dimitri’s lips flash in a smile. ‘In a sense. If it would … satisfy you.’

Felix swallows, and his trapped wrists bend uselessly in Dimitri's grip. They used to hold hands, long ago: like this. Palm to palm, a pilgrims’ kiss; fingers entwined, as though nothing worse than a sharp tug could separate them.

But then: Duscur. And Dimitri, dead. Dimitri, gone. Dimitri, who is not coming back.

This Dimitri—the sad, smiling prince—leans down to slot their lips together. Clothes become impediments. Frustration pools in Felix’s gut and echoes back to him thrice-fold.

Felix kisses him blind, mouth wide open for Dimitri’s taking—and Dimitri takes, and takes, unhesitatingly, stealing heavy, drugging kisses from his tongue. He slings one long leg over Dimitri’s hip and brings him to lie between his thighs, close and then closer, till he feels the weight of Dimitri’s erection settle hotly atop his own. The kiss breaks, resumes, breaks again. Resting on his elbows, his chest above Felix’s, Dimitri lays his palm against the side of his face and angles it into the light. His eyes are a grim, everlasting-blue, blazing with a devotion Felix forces himself to look away from.

‘Ah, Felix. The things you do to me.’

‘You lie. I do nothing to you.'

‘Mm.’ The unbearable smile in his voice.

They are both down to their shirt and leggings, and sweat makes fabric cling obscenely to their skin. It’s almost enough friction to get Felix off: the taste of Dimitri’s tongue, the warmth of Dimitri’s chest, the jut of his cock rubbing against underneath his in smooth, even circles. His hands slide over Dimitri’s shoulders. He tests the work of muscle there, the long arms braced on either side of him, the dip of his spine through flimsy linen.

Dimitri says, almost pleasantly: ‘I want to fuck your thighs, Felix.’

‘I—oh.’

‘Soldier’s thighs. Strong and hard. I’ve been thinking of it. Of you.’

That’s. 

Felix nods. He can’t not.

So: Dimitri makes him naked.

He is ungenteel about it. His hands palm Felix’s thighs and part them easily; he draws Felix’s shirt over his shoulders and down his arms in a long, smooth movement. Then he takes off his own clothes, which is—satisfying, in its way. It’s a good body. Tall. Strong. Workable. It’s Dimitri’s body.

That cock between his legs is memorable, _massive_ , and Felix staunchly ignores it.

They kneel on the bed, kissing. Dimitri takes his face in his hands, nudges his nose with his own.

‘Turn around.’ He’s still so gentle. It’s unbearable.

‘I—have oil,’ Felix admits, even as he puts himself on his hands and knees. Saints, the vulnerability of it is going to fell him. He can’t stand it; he is aroused to the point of pain. With a gigantic effort he resists the urge to wrap a fist around his own dick. ‘In the—’

‘I have it,’ Dimitri hums. Felix closes his eyes. Moments later there is a slick, lewd noise, like he’s rubbing his palms together in the oil, and then his hands are—ah, there, and yet not there—spreading Felix’s thighs open—pushing him down to the bed so Felix’s back arches, his shoulders and elbows flat against the covers. ‘Seiros,’ Dimitri murmurs, his fingers trailing down Felix’s spine. ‘You look—’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

A soft laugh. Another sound: oil against flesh.

Then Dimitri’s thighs are to the back of his own, and that ridiculous cock is pressing against his ass—not pushing in, just moving _between his cheeks_ , ah, _Saints_ , it’s slick and oiled and fat and good, and Dimitri’s fingers are at the base of his spine, exerting just enough strength that Felix stays down, unmoving. Felix smothers a needy little moan against his forearm and decides to be embarrassed about it later.

Dimitri—there’s no other word for it—humps his ass. ‘That’s—’ he says, breathless, and then: ‘oh. Oh. Felix. Felix … ’

‘I thought,’ Felix manages to say, ‘you wanted to fuck my thighs, boar. Have you changed your mind and decided you wanted my ass?’

He has only a moment’s breath to feel self-righteous about it—Dimitri’s hand snaps to his hair, gripping it so harshly that the bun Felix kept it in is destroyed beyond repair. ‘Don’t challenge me,’ he pants, low over Felix’s back. His cockhead dips in between Felix’s ass cheeks, slippery with oil, before he tears himself away. Felix makes a sound of protest, low in his throat.

‘Press your thighs together for me, Felix.’

 _Ah_ , Felix thinks: this is the prince, regal, commanding, used to having his orders conveyed and carried out. Felix could no sooner disobey as fall on his own sword. He trembles as he assents.

‘That’s it,’ Dimitri murmurs. He’s touching himself, audibly. It makes Felix’s cheeks burn with mortification.

At last, at long fucking last, he takes Felix’s hips between his hands and pushes that—ugh—substantial dick between Felix’s oiled thighs, right up behind his tightly-drawn balls. Felix sobs outright, humiliation and longing rising in his throat. It’s—a _betrayal_ , he knows—of Dimitri, of his Dimitri, whom he loved, to want this pretender in his stead. But it’s good. It’s too good. He can barely move. He can only lie there and take it.

‘Felix,’ the boar whispers. His hands roam, incessantly, over Felix’s sides, his waist, his ass, as he thrusts slowly, delicately, excruciatingly. ‘Ah, Goddess. I’ve wanted—you’re so—’

Felix clenches his thighs viciously, rather than let him finish. Dimitri gasps, a high intake of air, and he takes Felix by the throat.

Felix’s head is pulled back. His neck arches. Dimitri gathers him against his chest, running his hands down Felix’s chest and quivering stomach, his hips thrusting shallowly against his ass, shoving his cock through the hot slick gap of his thighs. Felix’s dick is so damned hard it's drooling on his belly. Dimitri noses at his nape through his unbound hair, caressing him still.

‘I’ve wanted this,’ he repeats, impossibly sincere, ‘since I can remember.’

‘Liar,’ says Felix. Awfully, a tear falls. Two. ‘Liar.’

‘What must I do to convince you?’ asks Dimitri, shakily, though his fingers are still at Felix’s throat, still gripping him there, marking him. His chest is sweat-slick against Felix’s back. ‘What can I do that you will ever forgive me? Anything, I swear it.’

‘Nothing,’ says Felix, ‘nothing, nothing, never,’ and works a hand around his own aching prick even as an impossible prayer crawls in his brain— _give him back to me, come, come back to me, please_ come back—

His orgasm is a horrible, throbbing thing. He works himself raw, tasting salt.

‘Felix,’ Dimitri says, sounding stunned. ‘Oh, Felix … Felix … ’ And he must be over-stimulated too, beast that he is, for it takes only another couple of savage thrusts before Felix feels his come stream all over his thighs.

But when Felix feels his body give in, when gravity drags him down, when he falls, Dimitri’s arms are around him, holding him up, holding him fast.

They breathe. It’s the last thing they can do.

* * *

Felix sprawls, after sex. His limbs are heavy, lethargic; his breathing deep. His chest gleams with the sweat of their labors, and his hair tumbles over his shoulders, longer than Dimitri remembers ever seeing it. Dimitri manhandles him with care, pushing him onto his back and stroking a clean rag down his legs. Felix watches him, eyes half-lidded in the lamplight.

Dimitri’s fingers linger on the soft inside of his thigh. He wasn’t lying: the play of steel under that silken skin fascinates him. It’s a testament to how breathtakingly capable Felix’s body has become, how unstoppable he is in the field. His sword skills are unequaled among their promotion.

Purpose and inflexibility in one body. A true Fraldarius.

‘What are you looking at,’ Felix murmurs, without much heat. His cheeks are flushed, though Dimitri cannot tell if it is embarrassment (unlikely, knowing Felix) or mere exertion. Felix’s fingers twitch at his side. He doesn’t reach out.

Dimitri does.

Felix allows himself to be kissed, allows Dimitri to put their palms together again. But his lips are bruised, and when they leave Dimitri’s he falls back into the pillows, running his hand up his throat with a grimace.

‘You’re a menace. Trust you to be as bestial in sex as you are in a fight, boar prince.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ lies Dimitri.

Felix snorts. He turns his bare shoulder, hair spilling down his neck, and gives Dimitri his back.

‘Be gone by first light. I don't want to see you.’

Dimitri puts his lips to his neck. He splays his hand over Felix’s sweaty chest, down to the vee of his hips. He feels very violently tender. Felix says nothing. But his abused thigh slides between Dimitri, and his abused ass presses back against Dimitri’s softened cock.

Dimitri won’t sleep tonight: he can feel insomnia creeping up on him, inescapable. His heart still calls out for bloody revenge. But. Felix’s body against his is warm, at least. Felix gives him this, at least. It feels like another grace.

The last, perhaps.

* * *

Five years later, in the throes of madness, Dimitri looks up from the ruined remains of the cathedral and sees Felix standing guard. And he knows. He knows. 

**Author's Note:**

> felix has to wait five years to _really_ get railed by the beast, yeah. 
> 
> heemy [radialarch](https://twitter.com/radialarch) did this to me :'( how dare u bb
> 
> title is from ali shapiro's gorgeous poem [I Keep Trying To Leave But The Sex Keeps Getting Better and Better](http://tiltingourheadsup.blogspot.com/2013/04/ali-shapiro-i-keep-trying-to-leave-but.html?m=1), which ends like this:
> 
> _There’s blood in my hands  
>  for fight and blood in my legs  
> for flight and nowhere  
> a sign. Believe me, I’ll leave if you just  
> let me touch you again for the last  
> last time._
> 
> come & say hi on twitter @[o_honeybees](https://twitter.com/o_honeybees)! it's a new account & i am ravenously looking for people to follow <3


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